


A Touch Of

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hand Kink, M/M, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John develops an unusually strong obsession with Mycroft's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch Of

**Author's Note:**

> \- Cleaned-up version of a fill written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=97700902#t97700902) on the kink meme.  
> \- Thanks to the wonderful [](http://kholly.livejournal.com/profile)[**kholly**](http://kholly.livejournal.com/) for her beta work!

John remembered _exactly_ when it all started.

It had been just another afternoon filled with Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s never-ending rivalry, the two of them exchanging glares in passive-aggressive silence, insulting each other with looks only, adding the occasional sneer if the occasion warranted it.

By now, John knew not to interfere. Whatever they were possibly arguing about, John would never understand anyway. Not that he cared, in particular.

Instead of trying to make them see reason, he settled down on the couch, pointedly ignoring the men in favour of reading the paper: a proper, grown-up thing to do.

Until Mycroft’s mobile phone started ringing.

Distracted by the surprisingly upbeat jingle, John looked up from the article he was reading, his eyes settling on Mycroft’s hands as they retrieved the phone.

John didn’t know why it had been that moment in particular. After all, he’d seen Mycroft’s hands plenty of times in the past.

But for some reason, his eyes chose this day to get caught. Mesmerized, John hadn’t been able to help but stare as long fingers curled around the phone, a perfectly manicured thumb pressing the button to reject the call.

From then on, it had been a lost cause.

In the beginning, John had at least tried to ignore it.

He pretended not to feel the excited little tingle in his chest when Mycroft handed yet another case file to Sherlock, tried to act as if there was nothing breathtaking about Mycroft’s hand curled around his cup of tea and certainly didn’t stare at the way Mycroft’s fingers tightened their grip on the wooden handle of his umbrella whenever he entered or left a room.

Soon, though, John couldn’t deny it any longer. He was obsessed. And not only with a very nice pair of hands (which was, in and of itself, nothing much to be embarrassed about), no, but the hands of one Mycroft Holmes.

Surely, this couldn’t end well. How could it _possibly_.

But John Watson had never been one for reasonable, and certainly not one for doing the rational thing in favour of giving up the more exciting and slightly (or less so) forbidden option.

So instead of making himself stop while he still could, John simply accepted his obsession.

From that point on, there was no stopping.

Once he allowed himself to openly and consciously think about Mycroft’s hands more than was strictly normal (or healthy), he suddenly remembered dozens of instances where they had touched him already.

The very tips of his fingers brushing over John’s own as the case file of the Bruce-Partington plans exchanged hands. A brief but firm handshake as they parted ways once or twice.

And, of course, the warehouse.

Now, there wasn’t a day in John’s life that passed without him feeling deep regret over not having noticed Mycroft’s gorgeous hands back then.

He could have savoured the moment: the way the finely-formed tips had pressed into John’s skin, just briefly; the warmth they must have emanated, a stark contrast to the chill of the building; the way the tendons had shown through the skin, just enough to tempt you into touching them, tracing them.

John was only half-ashamed to admit to himself that lately, every last one of his wanking sessions had involved that first meeting in some way or the other.

And it wasn’t just desperate jerking off to some fantasy. No.

John savoured it, pretending that his own, shorter, blunter fingers were longer instead, more sophisticated. He pretended that instead of his own callused skin, there would be a soft thumb brushing over the tip of his cock. He imagined that it was just a hint of a finely-trimmed fingernail teasing his foreskin. He envisioned the way Mycroft’s hand would feel when it finally squeezed John’s full length, coaxing out an orgasm so intense that it would leave John panting.

Frankly, it was embarrassing how quickly some of these sessions came to an end.

Of course, John should have known that his obsession would not go unnoticed. Even next to Sherlock, Mycroft Holmes was the most observant man John had ever met in his life.

Not that one had to be a genius to notice John’s reflexive swallowing when Mycroft’s fingers tapped against his lips in thought. Or the way John’s eyes widened comically when Mycroft brushed an annoyed thumb over the ridge of his nose. Or John biting his lips when Mycroft rubbed his palms together, trying to get his hands to warm up a bit.

When, one Saturday morning, Mycroft showed up unannounced at their kitchen door, John should have already seen that this wasn’t a regular social call.

After all, John had never seen Mycroft wearing that particular pair of soft, brown leather gloves. To be honest, John didn’t even know how his short-spoken “Morning” hadn’t come out as some highly undignified noise of arousal.

Clearly, John had done something horrible in a former life to deserve this.

How else could it be explained that Mycroft Holmes had decided to pick and wear a pair of gloves that not only was very nice in and on itself, but enhanced, glued to Mycroft’s fingers as it was, the elegant shape of his hands like nothing else ever could?

Forcing himself to look away, John made himself stare into his bowl of muesli instead. It wouldn’t do to start salivating in Mycroft’s presence, would it? Surely, that was inappropriate.

Undoubtedly just as inappropriate as the way John’s cock had decided to react to the sight of gorgeous, leather-clad hands with a more than interested twitch against the thin cloth of his pyjama bottoms.

“I take it my brother is not home?” Mycroft said pleasantly.

Really, that should have given him away. Had John been more coherent, he might have realised that, surely, Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t make a mistake such as coming to 221B to see Sherlock without knowing that his brother wasn’t in. He controlled the CCTV, for Christ’s sake.

But to John’s defence, unfair means had been involved. There was no way in hell he could do any overly coherent or logical thinking at the moment, with Mycroft’s hands looking the way they did right now.

He made a noise that might have been a grunt of agreement, his own hands tightening around his spoon. They looked rough against the metal. Rough and worn and shabby compared to the defined fingers and soft palms Mycroft Holmes had had the indecency to be born with.

“Pity,” Mycroft continued. “You don’t mind if I wait here until he does return?”

Shaking his head, John continued to stare down into his bowl, watching the raisins float in the milk. He needed to calm down right now. That, or find an excuse to leave the room before he would do or say something that he’d regret.

“How are you, John?” Mycroft asked in the very essence of polite small-talk.

“Fine,” John replied. Well, _snapped_ , really. It was that or scream _”What on Earth possessed you to buy those bloody gloves, you git!”_ \- hardly a small-talk response. Instead, he bravely added an: “And you?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Mycroft replied easily.

John viciously drowned a raisin with his spoon.

He prayed to whatever Gods there were out there that Sherlock would come home any moment to distract his brother, so John could slip out of the room unnoticed. To the bathroom. To have a shower. A _long_ shower. A shower that might or might not involve fantasysing about those bloody hands in those fucking gloves.

A brief period of silence passed. John might have termed it awkward if he hadn’t been so busy willing down an erection of proportions truly unreasonable to be caused by the mere sight of a pair of hands. He wasn’t fully erect but - well. That might change with the right stimulus. A look or two, a glimpse. Or, Heaven forbid, a _touch_.

“Are you sure you are quite well?” Mycroft eventually asked.

John wondered if it looked like he was in pain.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured.

This wouldn’t do. He had to leave, now. Who cared if it was rude. John was known to be rude on occasions. He had a temper, after all.

Coming to a decision, John’s spoon clattered into the bowl as he abruptly stood up. The spoon fell into the bowl with a startling noise, milk splattering over the table, along with a few oat flakes.

“Oh my,” Mycroft said and got up as well.

John had promised himself not to do anything so stupid, but then, Sherlock called him an idiot on a regular basis. Startled by the movement, John looked up in reflex.

Only to be confronted with the sight of Mycroft Holmes, a gloved hand raised in a gesture of surprise.

If John had been in a regular state of mind, he would have seen it for the exaggerated gesture that it was. Mycroft was a thousand times more controlled than that.

But John wasn’t in a regular state of mind. In fact, John let out a rather funny-sounding groan as his eyes focused on Mycroft’s hand.

“Ah.” John could hear the smirk in Mycroft’s voice. “So I was right.”

Caught like a deer in the headlights, John watched helplessly as Mycroft slowly curled his fingers in the air, the uncurled them again, the soft leather stretching and unstretching with the movement.

John swallowed audibly.

“Right?” he repeated breathlessly.

“About _this_.”

With that, Mycroft was moving, closing the space in between them with a few precise steps.

John knew he should probably back away. Instead, he stayed just where he was, letting Mycroft walk right into his personal space.

Finally, with Mycroft so close, John had to focus on something other than the man’s hands. Trailing upwards, his eyes locked with those of the other man.

Mycroft smirked.

“I had wondered for a while,” Mycroft was saying, voice low and undeniably seductive, “if you would make a move on your own. Had hoped, really. But then, you’ve always been the stoic type.”

John didn’t know what to say to that.

“You know, John,” Mycroft continued, raising his right hand. John could see it in the very corner of his vision - bigger than his own, gloved. His heart was beating faster. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Ask?” John whispered shakily.

“Yes, ask,” Mycroft repeated. “Ask me _to touch you._ ”

The noise John made then might or might not have been a very pathetic whimper.

“Ask,” Mycroft said once more, voice authoritative, firm.

It was all John could do: he obeyed.

“Please,” he said, face fixed as his eyes wandered, focusing on the sight of Mycroft’s gloved hand, only centimetres away from John’s flushing face. “Will you touch me?”

“Gladly.”

And Mycroft did.

It was heaven. It was hell. John couldn’t quite decide.

All he knew was that the second Mycroft’s hand cupped John’s left cheek, hot waves of pleasure radiated through his skin. Trembling slightly, John closed his eyes, entirely focused on the sensation of Mycroft’s hand, his _hand_ , wearing _that glove_ , touching him. It felt intimate and arousing and John leaned into it as if he were a pet, starved for affection.

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully.

“My, my,” he said. “If this is what I can do to you wearing gloves, I wonder what it will be like if I touch you skin-on-skin.”

Taking in a sharp breath through his nose, John opened his eyes again.

“Yes,” he said instantly. “Yes, please. I want you to.”

With a smirk, Mycroft let his hand trail until two fingers pressed against John’s slightly parted lips. Trembling, John kissed them almost reverently.

“Not now, I don’t think,” Mycroft teased and dropped his hand.

“ _No_ ”, John gasped, leaning forward as if to recapture Mycroft’s touch.

“Oh, I will, soon,” Mycroft promised him. “Just not right now. Although I must say, you’re quite the sight, John. Very eager. Just the way I like it.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Right now, I want you to touch yourself.”

“Touch myself?” John repeated.

God, he had to sound more than stupid, repeating whatever Mycroft said to him. If only he could find it in him to care right now.

“Get yourself off,” Mycroft elaborated. “Touch your cock. _Wank._ ” He smiled a small, teasing smile. “Make it a good show, and next time, I might help.”

John didn’t need any other motivation than that. Faster than he thought it was possible, he shoved down his pyjama bottoms and got a hold of his hardening cock.

Somewhere in the back of his head, John realised how ridiculous, how impossible this was, standing in the kitchen of 221B in front of a thoroughly dressed Mycroft Holmes, his own hand curled around his cock, just for the promise that Mycroft might touch him again.

The larger part of him didn’t care. Instead, he let out indecent noises of pleasure and need, moaning and grunting as he jerked himself off, his own hand so inadequate when Mycroft’s fingers were mere centimetres away.

“Good,” Mycroft encouraged him, voice low. Clearly, he was enjoying this. “Faster. Come for me.”

It didn’t take long. With Mycroft in front of him, and those hands so close, it was over quicker than John could have ever thought. He could still feel Mycroft’s phantom touch against his cheek as he came, semen spurting over his own hand and on the floor.

Panting, John stood in the kitchen, half-dressed, hand soiled as he looked at Mycroft. He knew his face was flushed, a mix of arousal and embarrassment, but all that didn’t seem to matter as he saw Mycroft raise both of his hands.

Entranced, John watched Mycroft pull at the fingerstips, saw him slip his right hand out of his glove. Then, Mycroft stepped closer, careful to avoid any mess John might have made.

“Don’t. Move,” Mycroft said firmly. Then, Mycroft trailed his forefinger through the mess on John’s own hand that was still curled around his softening cock.

“You did _so_ well,” Mycroft went on, raising his hand once more. John could see the smear of his own come sticking to the finger, so out-of-place against the soft, clean skin of Mycroft’s hand. “Have a treat.”

With that, Mycroft offered the finger to John.

Moaning again, John opened his mouth and sucked the finger in. If he hadn’t just spent himself, John might have come from this alone all over again.

As it was, he closed his eyes in something akin to ecstasy as he liked and suckled at Mycroft’s finger, tasting himself as he swallowed. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch, to taste. It was every bit as wonderful as had imagined all this time.

Eagerly, his tongue brushed over the pad of Mycroft’s finger, again and again, taking in the texture of his skin, the shape of the finger, until Mycroft decided that it was enough and pulled out.

John let out a trembling breath, sighing rather pathetically at the loss.

“Here’s what we will do,” Mycroft explained, voice patient but authoritative as he retreived his hand. “You’ll clean yourself up. You’ll do whatever it was you have planned for today. Tonight, I will send a car to get you. Then, we’ll see what you can do for me. Or I for you.”

Leaning forward, Mycroft suddenly was so close to John’s ear his lips nearly brushed it. “Maybe, I’ll jerk you off, hm? Perhaps I’ll prepare you for a fuck? Or, maybe, I’ll simply tie you up, trail my fingers all over your body until you’re a weeping, begging mess.”

John’s mouth fell open.

Leaning back again, Mycroft looked as collected as if he hadn’t just made John come for him in the kitchen with a hint of a touch and a few firm words. In fact, he simply pulled his glove back on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all, as if John weren’t still standing half-naked in the kitchen, come on his hands and his spent cock in his hand.

“I’ll be off,” Mycroft announced, giving John’s debauched form a last look. “Regards to my brother.”

It took John an embarrassing amount of time to move once Mycroft had left. In fact, had Mrs Hudson decided to come in, John probably wouldn’t have been able to even cover himself up.

Mycroft had touched him. Mycroft had _let him suck his finger_. And tonight, _tonight_ , he would do it again. Touch him. Tease him. Maybe, just maybe, get him off.

With a trembling breath, John finally went to set himself to rights.

He’d be a mess today. A jumpy, fantasysing mess. But it’d be worth it. Those hands on his skin - with a shudder, John turned to wash and clean up the kitchen floor.

He couldn’t wait for tonight.


End file.
